


Ascent

by DoubleBit



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BJs are the Best Js, Incest, Involuntary Cumswapping, M/M, Mild animal abuse, Murder-by-sweet-cakes, Reek 1.0 BFFs, dub-con, nastylittlebitch!Ramsay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:21:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleBit/pseuds/DoubleBit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Domeric wanted to bond with his brother, but not quite like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ascent

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Bolton Fic Exchange!
> 
> Prompt: Ramsay tempting his older brother and seductively feeding him as he secretly poisons him...
> 
> Hope this scratches that itch!

As for what he _wanted_ from Ramsay, Domeric Bolton couldn’t say for certain. He wanted _something_ desperately, but when his lively green eyes met the chilly gray gaze of his bastard brother, whatever it was he’d hoped for between them evaporated, leaving him floundering for words while a shadow of unpleasant amusement passed over Ramsay Snow’s face.

“My name is Domeric. I’m – we’re brothers.”

“Are we?”

It was a cold afternoon; a pall of frost still covered the ground, and his horse’s breath came in thick, white clouds as he rode through the fields east of the Dreadfort. Riding was a meditation for Domeric, and he’d been surprised when Ramsay accepted his invitation to come along, and even more surprised – and relieved – when he hadn’t insisted on bringing along that revolting companion of his. All of Domeric’s previous efforts at including his brother in his favored pursuits ended with Ramsay practically throwing a tantrum out of sheer boredom – though Domeric suspected there was something else to it. An hour spent trying to teach Ramsay his letters terminated with a beautiful old book thrown onto the fire, Ramsay storming off while Domeric tried in vain to fish the thing out of the embers with the tongs.

“I’m going riding,” he said at breakfast. “You should join me.”

Ramsay blinked at him and didn’t bother to swallow his food before saying, “For a hunt?”

Domeric shook his head. “No. Just riding.”

And it might’ve been the first time he could recall seeing Ramsay _smile_ – and not his usual mocking, humorless smile that Domeric found so unsettling, but truly grinning in the way a boy of sixteen _ought_ to, wide and careless. He looked _almost_ highborn on horseback, Domeric thought. His body was over-muscled from the mean labor of the mill, but his posture was strong and comfortable. He’d run his mare at a canter in a broad circle around Domeric, and Domeric was relieved that perhaps there was this one thing they could share.

It was foolish to think so.

Ramsay halted and regarded Domeric for a moment. His cheeks were red from the cold and that strange, sharp little smile hung on his lips. Domeric shifted uneasily in his saddle.

“Where do you want to ride to?” he asked, but before he had finished, Ramsay spurred his horse viciously and took off across the meadow. When he finally caught up, Domeric saw that the cream-colored flanks of Ramsay’s mare were matted with blood. She snorted and tossed her head, and Ramsay pulled back forcefully on her bridle.

It was rare that Domeric got angry. He struggled vainly to keep his voice as level as his father’s, but he felt the blood rising in his cheeks.

“Stop! You shouldn’t treat her so roughly!”

“I can treat her as it pleases me,” replied Ramsay. “That’s the point of owning such a creature, isn’t it?”

“That may be true for that creature of _yours,_ but you _don’t own her._ She belongs to our lord father.” He shook his head; the boy was almost incomprehensible sometimes. “Besides, you needn’t be cruel with such a well-bred animal. What you’re doing doesn’t make sense to her. How would you feel if someone drove a pair of spurs into your sides for no reason?”

Ramsay brought his mount parallel to face his brother, so close that their knees collided. Domeric had expected Ramsay’s reply to be something hostile, but instead he only looked entertained; it deepened Domeric’s irritation, and also a strange sort of anxiety that he wished he didn’t feel. Ramsay was little more than a boy, after all, and yet Domeric grew suddenly aware of their proximity.

“I’ve never seen you angry before,” mused Ramsay, leaning forward against the horn of his saddle. “What kinds of things would you like to _do_ to me right now, brother? I can see it in your eyes: You want to pull me off my – off our _lord father’s_ – horse and throw me into the dirt.” His smirk widened into one of those terrible, excited smiles. “You want to climb on top of me and _choke me,_ don’t you?”

Ramsay narrowed his gaze and Domeric damned himself for looking away as though those eyes were his father’s, and also because that was _precisely_ what he wanted.

“I – no. I simply want you to treat the animal well.” He set his jaw and braced himself against his brother’s cool stare. “I think it’s best if you return to the Fort.”

Again, he waited for Ramsay to object, but the bastard only shrugged. “As you wish. I hope you’ll forgive me; I haven’t yet learned a lord’s _kindness._ I’ll wait for you at the stables.” And with that, he sank his bloodied spurs into the mare’s flanks once more and sped away toward the sharp-toothed silhouette of the Dreadfort.

 

His ride was ruined, of course. Domeric continued on for half an hour, pausing to let his horse drink from a stream before resigning himself to returning. He knew the stories about his family, and while he’d lived in the Vale long enough to perceive that his father was an unusually taciturn man, he knew the rumors about House Bolton’s savage ascent were exaggerated. Still, there was no denying the morbid appearance of his father’s stronghold; even the cheerful afternoon sun did nothing to brighten the place, but cast its long, crooked shadow over the fields.

As the Dreadfort loomed ahead, he recalled the force with which his father had tried to dissuade him from seeking out Ramsay Snow, and he wondered for the first time if Roose had actually known what Ramsay _was._ But how _could_ he know? “Bad blood,” his father had called it, though privately Domeric didn’t believe in such things. Ramsay’s mother called him wild, and when he’d seen his brother for the first time, he looked like a feral animal – his black hair tangled and greasy, his gray eyes expressionless as they considered this stranger with the sigil of the flayed man across his chest.

_“Are we?”_

And he looked tamer – if not handsome – dressed in proper clothes with his hair pulled back, but there was still something inhuman about the boy. The only friendship he seemed to want was that of his serving man, who seemed barely a man at all. He saw them sometimes, whispering – Reek’s lips brushing Ramsay’s ear while his boney hand rubbed at the nape of his master’s neck and an arch smile crept across Ramsay’s lips… Domeric shook the image away as he passed over the Weeping Water and through the gate of the Fort.

In the stable, he unsaddled his horse himself and picked up a curry comb. His mount was a graceful roan that Domeric loved, and when she turned her massive head to look at him, he felt understood somehow. After she was brushed, Domeric closed the gate behind him and began walking towards the castle, when he heard a shrill yelp from one of the nearby stalls.

He halted, unsure that he’d heard anything at all, but it came again – the muffled sound of someone in pain. He approached the door of the stall and was about to push it open when a sudden, rank smell drove the bile up in his throat. He froze there – one hand on the wood of the -door and one over his mouth – listening, and realizing that the muted whimpering he heard was coming in short, steady intervals.

“Cry out like that again and I’ll sew your mouth shut.” Ramsay’s voice was low and ragged. “Which would be a pity, since it’s the only part of you that really _pleases_ me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Domeric urged himself to leave. _What he does with his – what he does is not my affair,_ he told himself.

And yet, he found himself straining to listen –

 _Seven hells._ For the second time that afternoon, Domeric found himself overwhelmed by the heat of his own blood. A knot hole in the grain of the door proved too much to resist, and what he saw there made his breath catch in his throat.

Reek steadied himself on all fours, braced on his elbows while his fingers clutched at the filthy straw strewn over the floor of the stall. His tunic was bunched up around his chest and Ramsay’s fingernails broke the skin as he dragged them over Reek’s ribcage. Reek hissed, and when Ramsay yanked back on his snarled hair, Domeric could see that Reek’s eyes were screwed shut, tears clinging to their corners, his teeth bared in what might’ve been a smile. Ramsay’s breeches were shoved halfway down his thighs and he leaned forward until his chest was flush with Reek’s back, his hair falling in a mess over Reek’s gaunt shoulders.

“You know I love your screams, but we need to me more careful in this place.”

Reek let out a long whine that only made Ramsay drive at him harder.

Domeric swallowed. The voice telling him to leave had gone silent, and as he watched his brother’s head drop forward, mouth open, a sublime sort of ache rose in its place and compelled him to continue. Ramsay came with a growl and enough force to knock Reek off-balance and shove him face-first into the floor. He stood and re-tied his laces loosely, watching with amusement as Reek struggled to his feet and wiped uselessly at the cum seeping down his thighs.

“When will I see you again, m’lord?” he asked. “I hate being kept out here, away from you.”

Ramsay smiled. “I know, I know. Soon things will sort themselves out, and then you’ll go where I go again.”

Reek looked doubtful, and Ramsay pulled him close and laid a chaste kiss just between his eyes. “I promise.”

The strange tenderness of the gesture was enough to break Domeric’s trance and he turned and fled from the stables, filled with shame and need. 

 

Dinner was nearly unbearable. Domeric kept his eyes trained resolutely on his plate unless addressed by his father, but as Roose spoke, he couldn’t stop his gaze from straying toward his brother. Ramsay cocked his head and blinked, the beginnings of a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

Domeric stared down at his mutton.

“You had a pleasant ride, despite the cold?” asked Roose, pouring himself more water.

“I enjoyed myself completely,” said Ramsay, not taking his eyes off Domeric. “Got a bit dirty in the stables though.”

Domeric took a deep draught of ale and when he glanced up from the cup, Roose was staring at him expectantly.

“And you, Dom?”

“Yes, quite enjoyable.”

Domeric refilled his cup and Roose eyed it disapprovingly. Was it his third of the meal? The fourth? He usually had only one with his supper, a custom he’d acquired during his time in the Vale, and one which his father had quietly accepted. Domeric’s hand shook as he poured.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Roose’s voice carried a slight concern.

With great effort, Domeric smiled at his father. “Oh no, I feel fine. Just terribly thirsty is all.”

At the far end of the table, Ramsay failed to stifle a laugh. It was a shrill sort of sound that earned a glare from both Domeric and his father.

“Forgive me,” said Ramsay, biting his bottom lip though his shoulders still heaved with laughter.

Domeric waited for what he felt was an appropriate amount of time before asking Roose if he might be excused to begin writing some letters he’d been meaning to send. It wasn’t until he rose from his chair and the blood rushed from his head that Domeric was abruptly aware he’d had more to drink than he thought; his feet felt heavy as he turned and left the grim hall, not needing to look over his shoulder to know that Ramsay was watching him.

 

In his chambers, Domeric stared confounded at a half-written letter to Mychal Redfort. They wrote one another often, and it always came easy to Domeric, the way he’d imagined conversing with a brother would be. But the candles were burning low and he’d been crawling his way through this sentence for what felt like hours. He tried to recall Mychal’s face, the way it looked after a race, exhausted and jovial – but then there was _Ramsay,_ leaning forward on his saddle with that smirk creeping up his lips, suddenly too close, that sharp tongue between even sharper teeth as he teased:

_“What kinds of things would you like to **do** to me right now, brother?”_

Domeric sighed and slid his chair away from his desk. He stretched his arms over his head before standing to look for new candles. He lit a match held it towards a wick when a voice inside the room startled him. As he turned, the flame licked at his finger and he dropped the match to the floor. It was Ramsay, leaned over with one hand on the desk and the other balancing a tray almost comically overloaded with sweet cakes.

“‘I have finally met my bastard half-brother,’” he read aloud in the deliberate, atonal manner of someone who has just learned, stumbling excruciatingly over the word “bastard.” “‘His name is Ramsay and he is –’”

Ramsay raised an eyebrow at his brother. “Giving you a little trouble, that bit?”

Domeric snatched the paper off his desk, cheeks red. “What gives you the right to come barging in here and reading my letters?”

“What gives you the right to watch me with my Reek?” shot Ramsay.

Domeric opened his mouth to deny it, but Ramsay interrupted:

“He may be the most foul thing South of the Wall, but he’s _mine._ ”

Domeric eyed the tray of sweets and saw from the stains at the corners of Ramsay’s mouth that he’d already helped himself.

“What is it that you _want?_ ” he asked stiffly.

Ramsay’s face brightened as he held the tray between them. “I wanted to make it up to you, for spoiling our ride this afternoon.” He selected one of the cakes and examined it before handing it to Domeric. “Besides, I know he never lets you eat more than one, and as your only brother, I feel it’s my duty to save you from our father’s temperance.”

Domeric took the treat from his brother’s outstretched palm. It looked so delicious, still warm from the ovens. And Ramsay’s smile seemed true enough…

“How did you get these?” he asked, taking a small bite.

“How do you think?”

Domeric shook his head as he devoured the rest of the cake. Gods, it was a mellow sweetness that seemed to satisfy every desire at once. He reached for another.

Ramsay pulled the tray out of reach. “Where are your manners, lord brother? A thank you is in order.”

“One of the kitchen girls will take a beating for what you’ve stolen,” said Domeric, and again Ramsay shrugged.

“That’s the life of a kitchen wench, I suppose: getting whipped over a few cakes while the lords of the house get up to all sorts of atrocities.” He held the tray forward again and watched as Domeric licked the glaze from his lips.

“You should learn some compassion for those less fortunate than yourself.”

Ramsay rolled his eyes and set the tray on a table, plucking another of the sweet cakes from it. “Is that why you bade our father allow me to come into his castle? Because you feel the need to treat an unfortunate _bastard_ well?” He took three steps and Domeric felt the cool of the wall against his back, Ramsay’s warm, wine-rich breath against his face.

“You’re my _brother,_ ” replied Domeric, surprised by the weakness in his own voice, as though it was an excuse he didn’t completely believe in. “I wanted to treat you as my brother.”

Ramsay looked at the cake, still held between his thumb and forefinger and slowly dripping its glaze down the palm of his hand. He turned his eyes back to Domeric’s and Domeric saw something hard in them – not the usual gray wall, but something _hungry._

“What if I don’t _want_ to be treated as your brother?”

“What – what do you mean?” he asked absurdly.

Ramsay ran his fingers along the curve of his brother’s throat and Domeric swallowed; he didn’t know which was worse – the way he flinched from Ramsay’s touch or the way his cock twitched at its gentleness.

“It’s clear you already think of me as a beast you can tame into a pet.” Ramsay hooked his index finger over the laces at the collar of Domeric’s tunic and pulled their bodies closer, brought his lips to his brother’s ear. “So do it. Make me _yours._ Show me how _well_ you can treat a poor creature.”

Domeric felt faint. To look at, Ramsay was only a boy; he stood a few inches shorter than Domeric, his jaw perfectly smooth against his brother’s cheek. And yet Domeric felt helpless – against Ramsay’s touch, his voice, against the awful ache between his own legs. Domeric’s hands trembled, but he seized his brother’s throat and held him back.

“Stop.”

“Stop me.” Ramsay strained against his brother’s grip.

Domeric relaxed his hand, let it slip down to splay against Ramsay’s chest. “I don’t want –”

Ramsay covered Domeric’s hand with his own and guided it back to his neck. “I _want_ you to.” The cake in his right hand was nearly mangled, crumbling as he brought it up to Domeric’s mouth. “It’s the truest kindness you can show me.”

Domeric pursed his lips and turned his face away from the pastry. He closed his eyes and cursed himself.

“What now, Dom?” Ramsay taunted. “You liked them well enough a moment ago. Or is it me that disgusts you?”

“No.” Domeric shook his head. “Not you.”

_Me._

“Then you want it?”

Domeric waited for that voice inside him, the one that sounded like his father and advised against rash actions, but it had gone silent and in its place something unnamable burned. He felt Ramsay’s pulse pounding just beneath the skin and wondered how hard he’d have to squeeze to snuff it out. Domeric nodded and opened his mouth.

The cake was only made sweeter by the salt of Ramsay’s fingertips as they pushed inside Domeric’s mouth and lingered there too long, sticky with syrup and saliva as Ramsay traced the edge of his bottom teeth before trailing them down to wipe against the front of Domeric’s breeches. Domeric inhaled sharply and Ramsay smirked, pressing the heel of his palm against his brother’s erection before kneeling to undo his laces.

Domeric grabbed Ramsay’s wrist, his voice barely above a whisper:

“Don’t.”

Ramsay looked up at him, eyes catching the candle-light. “Let me.” He leaned forward, tugging down on Domeric’s waistband to lay a wet kiss there. “You try, brother,” he said, dragging his teeth over the crest of Domeric’s hip. “You try so hard to please him. Let me try to please _you._ ”

He bit down, sucking a welt into his brother’s pale skin, his left hand snaking around to rub at the small of Domeric’s back while his right finished with the laces. Domeric shuddered as his cock bobbed free, fisted his hand in the hair at the back of Ramsay’s neck and yanked. Again, Ramsay smiled up at him, lips wet with saliva. He gave Domeric a couple of deliberately weak strokes and Domeric growled.

“Tell me what you want,” said Ramsay, so close that the moisture from his breath clung to Domeric’s skin.

“Your mouth. _Now._ ”

And Gods, there was no redemption for a thing like this, Domeric thought to himself as his brother’s soft, swollen lips closed around the head of his cock. Domeric moaned and let his head fall back against the wall, distantly thinking that it was cruel to force himself further down his brother’s throat even as he did so until Ramsay had taken his entire length. _It’s what he deserves._ He felt Ramsay’s nails digging into his thighs, and when he swept a thumb over his brother’s cheek, it was slick with tears.

“Ramsay?”

An eager little hum was Ramsay’s only response, and the sensation of it forced a whine through Domeric’s clenched teeth. The sound of his brother’s wet mouth and his own ragged breathed filled the room and Domeric closed his eyes. He tried to focus on the pressure building in his thighs and tried not to think about who taught Ramsay these tricks. Fleetingly, he imagined himself as Lord of the Dreadfort, sitting at the head of the table while his brother knelt between his legs.

“I knew you’d like this,” said Ramsay. “You are his son, after all.”

The blow that Domeric landed across his brother’s face was hard enough to make Ramsay hiss and rub his cheek tenderly, but not hard enough to break the smile on his lips.

“Don’t. fucking. _stop,_ Snow.”

When Ramsay took him again, Domeric gasped; he looked down and saw that his brother’s cheeks were flushed, a bruise already starting to appear just below his right eye.

“And _look_ at me.”

Obediently, Ramsay turned his eyes upward, watching Domeric from beneath thick, dark eyelashes as he swallowed him to the hilt. Domeric’s head cracked painfully against the wall when he came, his hips arching as he lost himself and spilled into his brother’s mouth.

When Domeric opened his eyes, Ramsay was standing, straightening his clothes and clearly intending to leave, despite his own still-obvious arousal. Domeric reached out tentatively.

“Don’t you want me to –”

He expected a kiss when Ramsay grabbed him by the jaw, but when Ramsay’s lips crushed against his, Domeric felt something warm and thick coating his tongue. He pushed Ramsay away. Furious, he coughed and spat the mess onto the floor. Ramsay laughed his high, spiteful laugh, a white ribbon of cum seeping from the corner of his mouth.

“How generous of you to offer,” he said lightly. “But my Reek is waiting for me outside; he knows how to please me. _Lives_ for it, really.” And he leaned in close again, smearing Domeric’s seed across both their cheeks as he licked at his brother’s ear. “It’ll break his wretched little heart to learn that you’ve taken such _advantage_ of me. He _warned_ me that you would. He’s a perceptive thing, you know, and he saw straightaway what it was you wanted.”

Domeric felt as though he might catch fire from the heat that raged in his chest.

“I didn’t – I never –” But it was useless, because he _had._

Ramsay levelled an appraising stare at him. “I wish father could see you right now.”

“He’ll never believe you,” and though Domeric’s voice shook, he knew it was true.

Ramsay smiled. “Of course not. I’m just his bastard.”

 

That night, Domeric awoke in the throes of a fever, and when the maid found him in the morning his skin was so pale and damp that she fetched the Maester before sending for his father. Three days later, when Ramsay was finally allowed to see his brother, Domeric’s quick green eyes had lost their luster and seemed to pass right through Ramsay as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“He’s had milk of the poppy,” said Roose, his voice somehow softer than usual. “He may not say much to you.”

Domeric reached a hand towards Ramsay’s face, brushing a few strands of hair behind his brother’s ear. Ramsay closed his eyes.

“I’m glad I found you, brother.”

“And I’m glad you came looking for me.”

Domeric smiled faintly. “I wanted you more than anything.”

He wrapped his hand around the nape of Ramsay’s neck and pulled him forward, planting a dry kiss on his brother’s lips while their father looked away.


End file.
